My Turn
by Anowen18
Summary: A few scenes from the lives of the Holmes boys as they grew up, including Sherlock's first day of school, a long car ride, and pirates!
1. Writing

_I own nothing except the plot. Just saying._

_Reviews are welcome!_

**My Turn**

Sherlock had been watching his brother work at his desk for at least an hour. The boy's eyes never moved from the pen and the scrawls it left behind on the paper.

Mycroft had been ignoring his brother for at least an hour. Sherlock seemed entranced by the writing that covered the pages of his notebook. Mycroft was supposed to be writing an essay for his history professor, but his thoughts kept straying to his younger brother's grey eyes staring fixedly at his homework.

At last he laid down his pen and looked at the dark-haired boy, who was still peering over the edge of the desk.

"What is it, Sherlock?" His brother pointed at the notebook.

"What's that?"

"Writing. Now, Sherlock, I'm busy-" Mycroft began.

"Can I try?" Sherlock's small fingers closed around the pen. Mycroft took it back just as quickly.

"Not now, Sherlock!" Thus scolded, Sherlock hung his head and backed away from the desk. A pang of guilt shot through Mycroft. He flipped to a clean page in his notebook and tore a few sheets free.

"Sherlock. Here." He handed his brother a pencil and say him in the chair that he had occupied himself only moments ago. He spread out the paper and began to write letters across the top of one of the sheets.

"Now, what letter does this look like?" Mycroft asked, pointing to the first. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, frowning. At last his eyes lit up.

"An 'a' !" he chirped triumphantly, and methodically printed the letter beneath Mycroft's. Mycroft reached around Sherlock and closed his hand over his brother's around the pencil.

"Good. Now, let's copy mine. Start at the top…like that, yes, now back up…" Before long, Mycroft had forgotten his assignment, becoming preoccupied with guiding his little brother's pencil through each cursive letter.

"How do you make the big ones?" Sherlock asked, pointing at Mycroft's abandoned essay.

"Capital letters, Sherlock, not 'big ones.'" He corrected.

"Capital." Sherlock repeated, frowning as he committed the word to memory. Mycroft nodded his approval and resumed teaching. Finally Sherlock looked away from the paper and up at his older brother.

"My turn?"

"Of course." Mycroft smiled and let go of the pencil, returning to his own assignment. Glancing up, he saw Sherlock's head bent over his paper and cocked just a bit to the left. He had stuck his tongue out ever so slightly, the very picture of child-like concentration.

After a while, Mycroft felt a tug on his trouser leg. Sherlock stood before him, proudly waving a paper about.

"I did it! Look, I wrote your name, see it?" Sherlock was nearly dancing in excitement. Mycroft took the page from his brother and studied it. It was barely legible, but he could just make out the 'M' and the 'H' of his name.

"Well done, Sherlock. You need a bit more practice, I think. Like this." He displayed his essay. Sherlock squinted at it, then nodded and scurried away to try again. Several seconds later he returned. Mycroft bit back a sigh.

"What?"

"I'm out of paper." This time, Mycroft did sigh, tearing out another handful of fresh paper and offering them to Sherlock, who took them and bounced happily off.

Finally Mycroft closed his notebook and stretched. He had finished his essay without any further interruptions from Sherlock. Which, really, could mean anything. Following the trail of paper, each sheet filled with Sherlock's scribbled attempts at cursive, Mycroft was led upstairs.

Paper littered the hallway and judging from the quality, Sherlock had been in Mummy's study. Mycroft bent to retrieve a piece as it fluttered in the wake of his passage. A closer inspection showed that these scrawls were not all words. Sherlock had drawn a surprisingly adequate picture of the tree outside the study window, carefully printed the word, then written it in cursive underneath. Mycroft allowed himself a small smile and continued, finding similar papers all down the hallway.

He picked up a few other sheets, reading 'cat', 'table', and 'violin' as he stopped in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom. He let them fall again when he saw how many pages covered the floor inside. He scanned the room, looking for his younger brother.

On one wall hung a few of Sherlock's drawings, splashed and stained with paint from the set Mummy had bought him in an effort to stop him from bringing dead animals inside. It hadn't worked. A desk was pushed against the wall beneath them. Crayons, pencils, and a few crusted paintbrushes lay on the surface. A chair stood by the window, Sherlock's violin and bow rested on the arms. The window stood open, and a cool breeze that promised rain was filling the room.

The unmade bed occupied the far corner, and from behind it, Mycroft was able to see a small foot. He crossed the room to find Sherlock sprawled out on the floor in an uncomfortable-looking position, fast asleep among his papers. Mycroft leaned down and removed a few sheets from underneath Sherlock and read it. On one side Sherlock had written his own name. On the other he had written Mycroft's.

Folding the paper gently, Mycroft tucked it into his pocket, allowing himself another small smile. He knelt and lifted Sherlock in his arms, the boy weighed almost nothing. Sherlock mumbled something sleepily into Mycroft's shoulder as his older brother carried him to bed.

Sherlock offered him the pencil as Mycroft tucked him in.

"Your turn, Mycroft. Your turn."

oOo

_I wrote this late at night. Be sure to tell me if it's rubbish._

_Not sure if another chapter will exist yet. Might just be done with it. Still not sure…What do you guys think?_


	2. School

_Chapter two! The idea came from a friend when I asked her for help._

_Once again, reviews and criticism are helpful!_

o0o

"I don't want to go."

"You don't have a choice." Mycroft glanced at his watch. If they didn't leave soon, they'd be late. It was the first day of Sherlock's first year at primary school, and the boy did___not ___want to go.

"Why can't you teach me?" Sherlock asked, having decided to be impossible and succeeding very well.

"Because I will be at school as well." Mycroft explained patiently. "Now put your shoes on."

"No."

"Sherlock." Mycroft warned. They were really going to be late if they didn't hurry. "Put your shoes on."

"I don't want to." Sherlock tried to squeeze past his older brother and vanish up the stairs into his room. Mycroft caught him by the collar of his uniform.

"Now, Sherlock." He said quietly, in a tone that signaled that he was losing patience. Sherlock eyed him for a moment, wondering just how far he could push his brother. A sharp tug on his shirt collar told him it was probably best to obey Mycroft.

Sullenly, Sherlock flopped down on the doormat and put his shoes on. He refused to tie them, but Mycroft had learned to pick his battles carefully by now. He locked the door behind them and they set out, Mycroft keeping a careful eye on Sherlock as the boy constantly darted off the path, looking at this plant or that insect. Once he even ran out into the road in pursuit of a rabbit and would have been hit by the oncoming car if Mycroft hadn't been watching.

They had gone about halfway when Sherlock first stepped on his shoelace and went sprawling to the ground. Determined to teach his brother a lesson about being stubborn, Mycroft kept walking. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and hurried after him. They didn't get very far before Sherlock stumbled again, though.

Off-balance, he managed to stagger a few more steps before he fell again. Mycroft heard a small whimper escape his younger brother and looked back over his shoulder. Sherlock's hands had been scraped raw by the rocky path, blood was beginning to show through the dirt that coated his palms. Mycroft turned away again, not stopping. Sherlock needed to learn.

"Wait, My! Wait!" Sherlock cried, a bit piteously.

"I detest nicknames, Sherlock, you know that." Mycroft admonished, not slowing his pace in the slightest.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock corrected himself, struggling to his feet again and rushing headlong after his brother. This time Mycroft stopped when he heard Sherlock fall for the third time with a yelp. Scuffling followed, then a few sniffles. Mycroft waited patiently. He could hear Sherlock mumbling to himself, then a snarl of helplessness.

"I can't do it!" Sherlock wailed. "Help me, please!" Sighing deeply, Mycroft went back to Sherlock, who was desperately trying to tie his shoelaces with his bloodied hands. He knelt beside the frustrated boy.

"Here. Like this." Mycroft deftly tied the first shoe. "Now it's your turn." Mycroft watched while Sherlock painstakingly tied the other shoe, resisting the urge to glance at his watch. They only had a few minutes left to get to school.

At last, Sherlock pulled the knot tight. Mycroft set him on his feet again, brushed the dirt off of his bleeding hands as best he could, and started walking once more. He looked down only once to see if Sherlock was keeping up. He was, sticking as close to his elder brother as he could without tripping the both of them.

As they entered the school grounds, Mycroft felt Sherlock's small hand slip into his own. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock almost winced, his hands still stung. Mycroft leaned down and pointed across the yard at a short woman standing just inside the door of the school.

"Look, there's your teacher. Well, go on."

"I don't want to." Sherlock whispered, tightening his grip on his brother's hand. "I want to go home." There were so many other children there, running and screaming about the schoolyard. Sherlock seemed a little intimidated. Mycroft closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten.

"Mummy will pick you up after you're done. I promise I'll bring something home for you if you'll just give school a try."

"Something like what?" Sherlock asked, curious. Mycroft dodged the question.

"Something you'll like. Now go." He led Sherlock to the gate. A boy tore past, shouting. Sherlock jumped back, stumbling over Mycroft's foot in the process. the teacher spotted them then, and made her way over to the gate to speak to them.

"Hello. I'm Mrs. Williams. And who might this be?" she asked, facing Sherlock. Mycroft nudged him.

"Sherlock Holmes." The boy mumbled.

"Well, Sherlock, why don't you come and play with the other boys and girls?" Mycroft chose that moment to free his hand from his brother's grasp. Sherlock threw him a panicked look, but remained where he was as Mycroft began walking toward his own class.

A boy approached Sherlock, who eyed him warily. "We're playing hide and seek." He announced. "Come on, it can be your turn."

"My turn?" Sherlock stammered.

o0


	3. Avast!

_This chapter took a little longer than I was expecting, sorry!_

o0o

Sherlock tore around the corner, holding his pirate hat on with one hand as he almost crashed into his mother. She smiled as he disappeared out the back door.

Mycroft had been reading under the oak tree in the back when his brother came rushing out, shouting something about 'an island off the port bow'. He closed his book with a sigh, his quiet afternoon shattered. He watched his little brother race around the yard, brandishing his pirate 'sword'. Which was, Mycroft realized, the bow to his violin.

"Sherlock Holmes!" He cried, horrified at such carelessness. Sherlock froze in mid-stride, aware his older brother was angry, but not sure why. He approached Mycroft apprehensively.

"Mycroft?"

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

"I'm a pirate!" Sherlock brightened considerably. "Want to play?" Mycroft shook his head and took the bow from the boy.

"This is not a sword. This is for your violin, and should be treated with care." He scolded. Sherlock frowned.

"The violin is boring." He sat cross-legged on the grass next to Mycroft, staring sullenly at his grass-stained knees.

"You only just got it, and you hardly ever play." Mycroft said a little incredulously.

"It's boring." Sherlock repeated with a shrug, as if that said it all. Mycroft good-naturedly pulled his younger brother's hat down over his eyes and rose.

"Come on, I'll teach you." Sherlock straightened his hat and hurried after him.

Inside the house, Mycroft seated himself on the piano bench and sent Sherlock to fetch his violin from the disaster his little brother called a bedroom. He brought it down after a few minutes, still wearing his pirate hat.

Mycroft took the instrument from Sherlock, carefully tuning the battered violin. Father had purchased it for Mycroft several years ago. Mycroft, however, had preferred the piano, and thus the violin had passed to Sherlock, who seemed less than impressed with it.

Finally he handed the instrument back to his little brother. Sherlock took it with a scowl. Mycroft ignored it and turned to face the keys of the piano.

"We'll start small, shall we? A 'C' scale should do." He played the scale and motioned for Sherlock to play.

The noise that came from the violin grated against Mycroft's spine and made him shudder. He turned to stare accusingly at Sherlock, who was looking rather pleased with himself and the reaction he had produced.

"Sherlock." Mycroft snapped. His brother straightened his hat yet again and stared back defiantly. Mycroft closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten, a trick he found to be quite useful in dealing with Sherlock. Finally he spoke, with a forced cheerfulness.

"Not quite, I'm afraid. Let's try again." This time Mycroft faced Sherlock, a warning look in his eyes. "Elbows higher, Sherlock. And loosen your hold on the bow." He corrected. Sherlock adjusted his death grip on the bow to a more suitable one.

"Like this?" Sherlock asked. This time the note was recognizable as a 'C'. Mycroft nodded.

"Much better. Let's move on."

As the morning wore on, Sherlock had progressed admirably, but was clearly growing bored with the practice. He surveyed his bow critically.

"I like it better as a sword." He remarked, giving it an experimental swing.

"No." Mycroft said firmly.

"But I need a sword!" Sherlock protested. His older brother sighed.

"You are not using your bow. Ah…here. Use this." Mycroft had ducked into the hallway and pulled an old umbrella from its stand and offered it to his younger brother.

"Avast!" Sherlock cried, his eyes lit up as he seized his new weapon and ran off into the yard happily, leaving his violin, and his bow, on the piano bench.

Mycroft removed them and carried them up the stairs to Sherlock's room, taking immense care not to set his foot on any of the numerous items that littered the floor.

As he packed the violin away in its case, he heard Sherlock dashing through the house again, and making an awful racket. The boy never seemed to stop moving. Suddenly, the noise stopped. Mycroft was on the alert almost instantly. A quiet Sherlock could mean almost anything.

Hesitantly, Mycroft descended the stairs. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had gone back outside? He went to look out the back door.

Sherlock sprang from his hiding place and whacked Mycroft across the knees with his umbrella-sword, crying;

"Have at thee!"

Mycroft made a small noise of pain in the back of his throat and managed to dodge as Sherlock swung again.

"Sherlock-"

"That be Captain Sherlock to you, scalawag!" Sherlock continued after his older brother, landing a few more painful hits before Mycroft finally took up his own umbrella from by the door and parried Sherlock's next blow. He smiled at the look of shock that replaced his younger brother's mischievous expression.

"I believe it's my turn, _Captain_ Sherlock."

o0


	4. Car Ride

_Sorry it took so long to update_

_Reviews are always appreciated!_

There were still four hours left of the car ride. Mycroft, however, didn't think he was going to make it that long. Sherlock was bored, and was proceeding to make the rest of the vehicle's occupants miserable.

"If you look out the window, Sherlock, you can see the city." Their mother offered hopefully.

"Dull." Sherlock muttered, kicking the seat in front of him. Which happened to be Mycroft's seat. This time, Mycroft found it necessary to count well past ten.

"You could read one of your books. You brought quite a lot of them, didn't you?" Mummy tried again.

"I've finished them all." Sherlock replied, twisting impatiently in his seat. "Aren't we there yet?"

"No, Sherlock." Mycroft answered shortly. "Not for a long while." Sherlock groaned and Mummy cast a helpless look at Mycroft. Sherlock was going to be unbearable unless he had something to occupy him. Mycroft tried to think of an idea, but couldn't think of anything that would entertain _his_ little brother.

Sherlock kicked the back of his seat again, and it took all of Mycroft's self-control not to yell.

"Why don't you tell me about the people you see outside?" Mycroft said at length. Sherlock eagerly peered out the window.

"That woman is wearing red today because she wants to feel important." Sherlock informed him gravely. "And that man-oh. We're going too fast." He complained, glancing imploringly at their mother. She checked her mirror and shook her head at the traffic that had lined up behind them.

"I'm sorry, dear, I can't slow down here."

"It was worth a try." Mycroft mumbled, turning around to glance at Sherlock, slumped desolately in his seat and muttering to himself. "There has to be something for him to do." he whispered. Mummy shrugged helplessly.

"Check in the glovebox?" She suggested. Mycroft did so, marveling at the amount of useless items that spilled out.

Sorting through crumpled tissues, old tickets to various theaters, and the odd pencil, he came up with three not very promising items.

There was a small cigarette lighter, cracked but still functional. Mycroft put it away. Sherlock was _not_ going to toy with fire, and especially not in the car. The second item was an old plastic soldier, which wasn't going to keep Sherlock occupied for more than a few seconds. The third item was a little better. It was the puzzle cube Mummy had brought home for Mycroft on her last visit to America. Holding it where Sherlock couldn't see it, he asked his mother.

"This?" Mummy tore her eyes away from the road for just a minute before she answered.

"That's too hard for him, Mycroft. Find something else." Mycroft gave her an incredulous look, but did as he was told, doing his best to ignore the constant jarring as Sherlock rammed his shoes into his elder brother's seat repeatedly.

"Be patient, Sherlock!" He snapped finally. The kicking stopped, but Mycroft could sense the sullen expression on Sherlock's face. The respite only lasted for around twenty minutes before he felt the seat jerk again.

Desperate now, Mycroft smoothed a crumpled paper that had been wadded in a corner and offered it to Sherlock, along with one of the pencils.

"Here. I don't know what else to tell you."

"You could tell me we're there." His little brother didn't so much as look at Mycroft, staring morosely out the window instead.

"We've a long way to go yet, Sherlock, I'm sorry." Sherlock groaned again.

"Can't we stop?"

"No. We can't. Go to sleep if you're so bored."

"I'm not tired."

"Boys, please!" Mummy interrupted. "I have to mind the road!" The two obeyed, if somewhat reluctantly. Mycroft checked his watch. Just two and a half hours to go.

He leaned back in his seat and found himself sitting on something. Shifting, he realized it was the puzzle cube. Thankfully, he mixed it up.

"Sherlock, I've got something for you." The dark haired boy did his best to look uninterested, but his voice betrayed him.

"What is it?" Mycroft passed the cube back to him.

"You need to make each side a solid color to solve it. They turn, yes, like that. See if you can solve it before we get there. Perhaps there'll be something in it for you if you can." Resorting to bribery again. He really _must_ find a better way to deal with Sherlock.

Not pausing to ask what that something might be, Sherlock bent his head over the cube and curled into his seat. Mycroft felt a sense of relief, but also hope that the cube would last the rest of the trip.

He needn't have worried. When they arrived, Sherlock was still busily clicking away, making exclamations of triumph or despair on occasion, but never once looking up.

Mycroft exited the car and stretched, happy to be standing.

"Here, Sherlock, you can give me that. We're here."

"Not yet! It's still my turn."

_Once again, reviews are always helpful!_


	5. Lost

_This one got kind of long. I'm sure you guys don't mind too much, though._

_Thanks to Gryphon31 for the idea!_

It was around four in the afternoon when the phone rang. Mummy was away on yet another business trip, so Mycroft had to answer

"Hello? Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"Mycroft, hello! Is your mother in?" The voice on the other end was one Mycroft knew well. Headmaster Thomas. But he was headmaster at Sherlock's school, and that he was calling did not happen be a good sign.

"I'm afraid not, Headmaster. If I could take a message?" Thomas hesitated and Mycroft's heart dropped into his stomach. Sherlock.

"I'm afraid your brother has, erm, gotten lost on his class trip this morning."

"When did you notice his absence?" Mycroft asked, heading to the door to fetch his coat. Sherlock's class had gone to the museum and the zoo. Both were likely places for Sherlock to wander off in.

"That's the problem. The last anyone can recall seeing him is getting off the bus at the zoo, which was the first stop." Mycroft was glad his old headmaster couldn't see the expression of utter disgust that he was wearing.

"What you are implying is that my brother could be anywhere. And that your staff didn't so much as take roll once. On the entire trip."

"Yes, well. He's usually so quiet, and er, he's a bit differ-"

"I'll be there in ten minutes." Mycroft hung up, placing the phone in the cradle with more force than was probably necessary. Sherlock was_ not _different. Well, maybe he was. He was overly inquisitive, antisocial, and had a tendency to ignore good manners and social convention. Was everyone at that school completely incompetent? He was still a boy, however 'different' they thought he was.

By the time Mycroft reached the school, he was nearly seething with rage. Luckily, having Sherlock as a younger brother had given him quite a bit of practice at concealing it.

Headmaster Thomas stood outside the school, at the same door Mycroft had dropped Sherlock off at on his first day of school. With him were a few teachers and several police officers who were asking questions and making small notes as Mycroft approached.

"Ah, my dear boy." Thomas called as he spotted the elder Holmes. Mycroft bristled a little at being called a 'dear' anything, but especially so by this man. "The police say they've searched the zoo and he's not there." Mycroft nodded

"Then there's only one place left. Any luck at the museum?" One of the officers shook his head.

"Nothing yet. But the place is fairly large, it could take a while."

"Nonsense. I'll go and get him myself, I know him best." Mycroft brushed past his old headmaster and faced the officer, not really asking so much as demanding to be taken down to the museum.

"I don't know…can't have the both of you getting lost, I'd be responsible."

"I assure you I know my way around the city." Mycroft snapped impatiently, trying to be as imperious as he could. Reluctantly, the officer agreed and they found themselves headed to the museum in one of the patrol cars.

After establishing a meeting place outside the doors of the building, the officers split up to search the floors, one of them_ (whose name badge read 'Allan'. Wife, three children, and relatively new to the force.)_ going with Mycroft. He headed for Sherlock's favourite exhibit, which was on the third floor and consisted of items from the Victorian Era police department. Sherlock was always particularly fascinated by the various disguises they had employed and could spend hours staring at it and thinking.

But the boy wasn't there. For the first time, Mycroft began to feel panicked. Where was he? A thorough search of the rest of the floor revealed nothing, and Mycroft insisted upon searching the rest of the building himself, despite the officers' report that Sherlock hadn't been seen anywhere. Finally he was forced to admit defeat.

"Captain, we have a possible kidnapping, boy's name is…" One man spoke into his radio, then looked to Mycroft expectantly.

"Sherlock Holmes." He answered numbly. Kidnapped? Sherlock was smarter than that. Unless-no.

Mycroft folded his arms and started tapping his fingers anxiously, the only outward sign of how frantic he was getting. He tried to think of where else Sherlock might have wandered off to, but his stomach twisted at the thought of his brother alone in London and distracted him. To make matters worse, it was getting dark. Mycroft wanted to scream.

Stop. Hysterics will not help, he told himself sternly. Remain calm and think. What would Sherlock do?

Most likely the boy hadn't been paying attention when the class left. He'd probably gone looking for familiar faces, which would take him outside to the street. Mycroft's least lurched in fear and he promptly ignored it. The policemen were all bent over a radio, receiving instructions of some sort. He pulled Allan aside.

"Come with me, I may know where he is." The officer said something unimportant to the rest of the men, then nodded and followed Mycroft.

They walked down the street a little way before Mycroft paused. A nearby potted plant had been pulled carefully to pieces, neatly arranged on the dirt where it could be seen. Evidently Sherlock had gotten sidetracked.

"Do you know where-" Allan began.

"Hush." Mycroft snapped. "He's gone this way." It was well and truly dark now, and a cold fear had settled over the elder Holmes, enough to set him at a near run. It was almost 9 o'clock, Sherlock had been missing for over four hours.

At last they turned a corner and Mycroft saw what he'd been hoping for.

"The library?" Allan asked

"We can only hope. Knowing my brother, however, it's probable." Mycroft climbed the stairs two at a time and walked through the doors. The library was dimly lit, save for the reading lamps that overhung several desks and armchairs on one side of the room. Sherlock would be in the shelves, though, so the occupants of the chairs were irrelevant.

Mycroft weaved in and out of the bookshelves, searching for a familiar mop of dark, curly hair. Allan's radio crackled, breaking the silence and almost making Mycroft jump. After answering the the static-filled voice on the other end, the policeman looked up.

"Listen, we should head back. They've issued a reward and someone has to have seen him." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Except he's here." Mycroft had noticed a leaf lying on the floor. One that just happened to be the same type as the plant his little brother had so painstakingly destroyed. "Shall we continue?"

But there was no further sign of Sherlock. Perhaps it had been a coincidence? There was still one row of shelves left. Hesitantly, Mycroft turned the corner. A dark blur shot out, latching onto him.

"My!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft threw his arms around his brother, not caring in the least that Sherlock had used his nickname.

"Dirk and Roger stole my scarf!" Sherlock cried, shaking.

"Dirk and Roger Whitby? The fifth years?" Sherlock nodded, doing his best not to cry. Mycroft frowned. He would speak with those boys later.

"I found it but then I couldn't reach it and then I did, but everyone was gone, and I tried to find them but I got lost and then it got really dark and I was scared so I came in here." The little boy rambled, sniffling.

"It's all right, Sherlock, I'm not angry with you. Let's go home." Allan was speaking into his radio again. Idiot, Mycroft thought. The whole system could use some alterations.

In the backseat of the patrol car, Sherlock leaned sleepily into his older brother, Mycroft ruffled his hair fondly.

"One day I'll be bigger than Dirk and Roger" Sherlock promised. "Then it'll be my turn."

_Not sure about how this one turned out…reviews please, tell me how I did!_


	6. Fight

_I'm not sure if these chapters are getting better, or worse. _

_Please leave a review, I love to hear what you think!_

Sherlock tore through the hedge, running for the graveyard. His pursuers screamed curses as the dense plant slowed them down. Sherlock allowed himself a small smirk. They always fell for that. Well, almost always, he mused, as several more boys came bursting out of an alley nearby.

Sherlock quickened his pace. There were very few boys at his school who could outrun him. Although he'd had plenty of practice. He swerved as one of his classmates threw something at him (Tommy, if the angle and the poor aim were anything to go by).

If he could just reach the graveyard, there was an old tree that only Sherlock was light enough, (or smart enough, for that matter,) to climb. He'd be safe there.

"That's right, freak, go on and run!" the voice belonged to Randall Smith, one of the bigger boys in Sherlock's year. Sherlock had made the mistake of vocalizing an observation about Randall that he apparently objected to. But it had been so obvious!

Suddenly a rock crashed into the back of his head. Randall's friend Clark really did have decent aim. For a moment the world tilted dangerously, but Sherlock was able to stagger on and regain some of his lost speed.

The next stone struck his shoulder. Sherlock decided he'd had enough. Veering sharply to the left, he dove through a hole in a garden fence and into the yard beyond. Cutting across another lawn, he spotted a tree that just might serve to put him out of the reach of Randall and his cronies.

Scrambling up the trunk, he noted that he had perched himself in an apple tree. He smirked, an idea forming.

o0o

Mycroft didn't look up from his book as Sherlock pushed open the back door, more than an hour late.

"Smith again." He didn't ask, he knew. Sherlock's reply came as an oddly nasal grunt, drawing his Mycroft's attention.

His brother's gloved hand was clamped around his bleeding nose, a nasty bruise was forming around a cut on his cheek. His clothes were torn in several places and his face was streaked with mud.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft stood, alarmed.

" 'S nothing." Sherlock sulked up the stairs to his room, leaving his muddy shoes and worn book bag strewn halfway up the steps.

Mycroft sighed. This was the third time this week that this had happened, and who knew how many other times it occurred when Mycroft wasn't here.

The whole school had known it when Mycroft had left for University, and Sherlock's careless comments had caught up with him, literally. Wearily, Mycroft climbed the stairs after his little brother. Sherlock's door was shut and Mycroft could hear him tuning the new violin Mycroft had given him last Christmas.

"Sherlock?"

"Go away."

"Sherlock." There was a pause and for a moment Mycroft thought he was being ignored. He raised his hand to knock again when Sherlock answered.

"It isn't locked." Taking that as the closest thing to an invitation he was likely to get, Mycroft opened the door and walked in, almost killing himself on a pile of books that Sherlock had left in the doorway. He decided not to bring it up, it would only start an argument between the two.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, curled morosely around his violin and staring absently out the window. Mycroft stepped around the books and went to stand by his brother's chair.

"They call me a freak, Mycroft. Am I a freak?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Certainly not, Sherlock. They're only jealous." Mycroft glanced at his younger brother. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Understand?" When Sherlock nodded slowly, the elder Holmes straightened.

"But Randall-"

"Is an idiot. They all are. Now, let's get you cleaned up a bit before Mummy gets home." Sherlock's mouth curved into a small smile at his sibling's words as he followed him into the bathroom. Mycroft pressed a damp cloth to the cut on Sherlock's cheek, cleaning away the dirt as gently as he could.

"What happens when you go back to school, Mycroft? You'll go back and leave me and they'll come after me even worse."

"You'll have to learn to fend for yourself at some point, Sherlock." Mycroft regretted his words the instant he said them. Sherlock's eyes hardened and he pulled away

"Sorry I said anything."

"Sherlock, that's not what I-"

"Isn't it? Excuse me, I have an assignment." Sherlock pushed past his elder brother and vanished into his room, slamming the door childishly. Mycroft rubbed his eyes tiredly. He and Sherlock had grown so far apart in the year that he had spent at University, so much so that the slightest comment on either of their parts could start a row like this.

Crossing the hall (somewhat against his better judgement) Mycroft stood outside the door to his brother's room. Did he try and resolve this, or let it be? He tried to think of what he would do if he were someone else, a professor or a particularly difficult classmate. The problem with that was he usually envisioned himself dealing with Sherlock when he needed to be especially persuasive. Mycroft had yet to meet anyone more stubborn than his younger brother.

Lately, Sherlock had even refused everyday things like leaving his room, and eating, preferring to keep to himself whenever possible. As if to prove this, there was absolute silence in Sherlock's room, even though the boy had to know Mycroft was waiting outside.

Defeated, Mycroft let it be. It was never the best plan to force Sherlock into anything, and if he tried to enter now, he had a distinct impression that something would be thrown at his head. An experience he was not eager to repeat, the last time Sherlock had launched a rather thick book at him that he had only just managed to evade.

Retrieving his own novel, Mycroft went back downstairs to wait his brother out.

o0o

Fend for himself. Briefly Sherlock wondered if that included not making comments on the academic status of his classmates. Although it had been obvious that Randall and Tommy were cheating, perhaps pointing it out had not been the best idea. Well, it was done now.

The graveyard was no longer an option, he was too far away. Sherlock needed a different place to lie low until those idiots grew bored and left him alone. Thinking hard, he realized the park wasn't too far off. There were plenty of trees there.

Hang on, no. Fend for himself, not hide. He knew how his tormenters fought by now. Randall always left his right side exposed, and Tommy never kept his hands up when he kicked. But Clark attacked from behind. He'd have to watch that.

Having made his decision, Sherlock stopped abruptly and whirled to face his pursuers. He was going to fight back pulled up short seemingly confused by his actions.

"Well, come on! I'm not running any more!" Sherlock shouted impatiently. His heart leaped in his chest, a thrill of adrenaline rushing through him. What was he doing? He didn't have time to answer that question, Randall was approaching with a cruel smile. Sherlock curled his hands into fists and met him halfway.

Randall's first blow barely brushed Sherlock as he twisted to the side. Which, of course, made the other boy's right side an irresistibly easy target.

Sherlock felt the bones of Randall's nose shatter under his knuckles. The boy shrieked and backed away, blood pouring from his nose. He shouted something that could have been 'get him', but Sherlock couldn't be sure, he sounded so different with a broken nose.

Either way, the other two boys were advancing rapidly.

o0o

Mycroft walked to the door for the hundredth time and looked out the window. He had considered going to pick his brother up after school, but that would've angered Sherlock even more. But still, he was twenty minutes late, and he had left the house in a mood that did not bode well.

Mycroft turned back to the living room and tried to return to reading his novel. He read the same sentence eight times before he gave up and dropped the book on the 's when he heard running footsteps up the path.

He returned to the back door and threw it open, only to find a panting seventh year boy on the steps instead of his brother.

"I did what you said, I followed him." The boy gasped. "They're fighting in Cross Street park, three against one."

Reaching around the door, Mycroft grabbed his jacket and pulled a five-pound note from the pocket.

"As promised. Now, go on." The boy rushed off with his money and Mycroft headed for his mother's car. He really should've gone to pick Sherlock up.

o0o

Sherlock's vision exploded in stars as his head bounced off the pavement. Clark had tackled him to the ground, he had forgotten to watch his back.

All in all, though, Sherlock felt he really hadn't done too badly. Randall was kneeling on the curb, trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose. Tommy was going to have a black eye in the morning, and Clark's shirt was ruined. Although, Sherlock was sure that he looked much worse.

Tommy suddenly leaned in, a fist raised to hit him. Sherlock closed his eyes and wondered if this was supposed to happen when one was fending for himself. The blow connected with his cheekbone and Tommy cursed, shaking his hand in pain.

"Go on, Tommy, and hit him again. The freak deserves it." Clark gasped (around broken teeth, Sherlock noted proudly) as Sherlock twisted violently in his grip, but Clark was bigger than him and kept him pinned. Sherlock sighed. What was Mycroft going to say?

o0o

Mycroft stopped the car a few meters from the boys. It looked as though Sherlock had put up a decent fight, but currently he was doing rather badly, pinned to the ground between two of the boys. Children could be so cruel, he thought sadly.

He rummaged in the backseat until he came up with a weapon of sorts. He was hardly going to use his fists, after all. He stepped out of the car and approached the boys, who were too intent on what they were doing to notice.

As one raised his arm to hit Sherlock again, Mycroft struck him across the shoulders with the umbrella, not terribly hard, but enough to make him squawk and scramble away with the other boy. Randall, Mycroft noticed, was crouched off to one side, nursing a broken nose and trying to slink away.

"I wouldn't, if I were you. Any of you." Mycroft's voice was quiet, but all three froze instantly, terrified of him.

As well they should be, he thought, barely surpressing his rage. How dare they harm Sherlock? Unacceptable. He knelt in front of his younger brother.

"Let me see."

"No. I'm fine."

"Sherlock, _let me see!"_ Mycroft shouted. Sherlock stared. Mycroft never raised his voice. Scolded, yes, but never yelled. The elder Holmes tilted his brother's head up and looked him in the eyes. They were defiant, but a little unfocused. "Minor concussion. Come on, you're all right." Mycroft pulled Sherlock to his feet and steadied him as his brother swayed dizzily. Mycroft bit his cheek, fury rising inside him, invisible on the surface.

"Mycroft, I can-"

"Get to the car. We'll talk later." He warned, giving Sherlock a gentle shove in the direction of the vehicle. Then he turned to face his brother's attackers, leaning casually on his umbrella. "All right, boys, let's talk."

"He, we weren't-" Randall began his defence. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Hush. Now let me make this _perfectly_ clear. We wouldn't want any misunderstandings, now, would we? If you_ ever_ touch my brother again…I shall know. And then it will be my turn."


	7. My Turn

_Okay, I'm sorry this update took forever. I was really unsure about this chapter, still not sure if I like it, and then real life was in my way all the time. I did my best. I think._

_**Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you all for reading!**_

Mycroft was aware of two things before he even opened his eyes. One, he was tied to a chair in a dark room somewhere. Two, his security team were all complete idiots and needed to be replaced with more competent individuals as soon as possible.

His head throbbed and he could feel a thin line of blood that had dried on his forehead. Perfect. He had a meeting with the Ambassador from Greece in two days. He tried to recall what had happened, he remembered the man, Adams, being shown into his office at the Diogenes. He should've known then, but he had been preoccupied with mending a bungled affair his secret service had created.

Adams hadn't been in the room for more than a few minutes when the building's power had been shut off, so Mycroft wasn't entirely sure what he had been struck with.

Listening, he could hear a guard pacing the floor outside the room. Heavy tread, but short and uneven. So, a large man, experienced with a weapon, under 170 centimeters, and previously wounded in some equally illegal venture. Mycroft twisted his hands, testing his bonds. The rope, however, didn't loosen, only grated against his wrists. There was nothing to do but wait.

o0o

Sherlock's phone beeped, but the detective never heard it. Instead he adjusted the focus on his microscope and made a mental note. He was so close to identifying the chemical that had been found on a body Lestrade had asked him to have a look at.

"Sherlock, your mobile." John Watson reminded from his seat in front of his laptop. Sherlock didn't answer him, either. The mobile beeped again. John huffed, exasperated. Sherlock had been like this for three days. The only time he moved was from the table to the sofa, and he had only eaten twice in that time period. Occasionally he would speak, but it generally wasn't to John.

Waiting a few minutes, John decided that Sherlock wasn't going to answer his phone and stood. Taking care not to knock a stray experiment off of the table, he skirted the table and reached Sherlock's phone, opening the text. He started to read it before he remembered Sherlock wasn't listening.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Oh, for God's sake. Sherlock!" John slammed his hand on the table. Miraculously, nothing fell. Sherlock flinched and stared accusingly at John, a sharp comment on his lips. John didn't let him start. "There was an attack of sorts at the Diog-" Sherlock snatched his mobile from the doctor's hand and scrolled rapidly through the text.

"It appears as though several government officials have been kidnapped. Including Mycroft." Sherlock pushed back his chair and was nearly out the door before he had his coat on. "Get your jacket, John."

"Give me a bloody second." John muttered, turning off the burner that Sherlock had left lit. The flat had already been set on fire once that week. "Git."

o0o

Mycroft had waited patiently for an hour. Then he had waited impatiently for another two. When no one came, he began to take a more careful look at his surroundings. There was a desk in one corner, covered with a thin film of dust. The file cabinets that lined the walls were in a similar state. There was a bit of mould on the wall by the ceiling, so somewhere damp, near the river. He tried to turn his head and see if he could see out the window to confirm, but a sharp spike of pain told him to stop trying.

And still, no one came. Mycroft was beginning to feel a bit insulted. He had expected to be taunted or some such nonsense by now. Was this continued isolation supposed to be frightening him? Because it was only serving to irritate him. He sighed and began tapping his foot.

o0o

"Sherlock, stop!" John felt like he was babysitting. But Sherlock was certainly acting worse than the most impossible child. Lestrade had made an attempt to call off the investigation at the club after the sun had been down for a few hours. Sherlock had turned on him faster than John had thought possible. He was fairly certain Sherlock would've torn Lestrade's throat out if John hadn't stepped between them. Now he was physically holding his flatmate back.

"Sherlock, listen to me. We've been out for hours, it's almost four in the morning! Let's take what you have already and start again in the morning, yeah?" John tried. Angrily Sherlock pulled away and stalked off. John turned to Lestrade. "Sorry, Greg, I don't know what's come over him." Actually, John was pretty sure that they both did, but saying it aloud would not improve the detective's mood.

"I've never seen him like this. You're gonna have your hands full keeping him under control." Lestrade whistled. John grimaced at the thought.

o0o

Mycroft lifted his head as he heard footsteps in the hall, much too light to belong to the guard. And about time, too. A tall, thickset man who Mycroft recognized as Will Adams entered the room.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. So glad you could join us." Adams perched on the edge of a desk. Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with the typical greeting.

"Any business you may have with me might've been better conducted in my office like civilised people." Adams laughed, but the sound was hollow.

"Oh, you're good, very good. The other two were frightened. But you're not them, are you?"

"Obviously not." Mycroft couldn't help saying. There was no point in antagonizing his kidnapper, but there was also no point in asking questions one already knew the answers to. The smile dropped from Adams' face.

"I'll thank you not to mock me. It's not a wise course of action, and we both know you're an intelligent man. Now, I expect you know why you're here?" Mycroft bristled. He was not a schoolboy and would not be spoken to in such a manner!

"Judging by my current surroundings, you've run into a bit of trouble and you're hoping one of us will let slip something important, something you will have to be…compensated for keeping to yourself. Or, to save yourself with the ransom money you will undoubtedly get for myself and my colleagues, thinking we were far more influential than, in fact, we are. So sorry to disappoint." He spoke quickly, managing to stare contemptuously down on the other man, despite the height difference. Adams blinked, clearly a bit overwhelmed.

That only lasted a short while, however, before a cold look replaced the startled one in his eyes.

"I knew you were a smart man, Holmes. Pity you don't have any sense."

o0o

Sherlock stood and threw the sample he had been studying across the room. John flinched slightly as the glass shattered against the far wall. The detective had been at it all night and most of the morning, and progress was agonizingly slow. He had narrowed the location to a small area along the river, but it wasn't good enough. Half-bind with fury, Sherlock seized the nearest object and hurled that against the wall, too.

John surveyed the remains of one of his favourite cups a little sadly, as Sherlock began pacing and muttering to himself. He was really tearing himself to pieces over this. And the flat, John mused as Sherlock flung another cup, which, thankfully, didn't break.

"Sherlock. Maybe you should leave it alone for a bit, yeah? Come back later and build on what you have?" His flatmate's head snapped up. He threw open the door and dashed down the steps into the street.

"John, you are _brilliant!"_

"What did I say? Wh-Sherlock, your coat, it's bloody _pouring_ outside! Sherlock, wait!" John snatched both his and Sherlock's coats from their hooks and hurried after his flatmate.

o0o

Mycroft was starting to feel horribly uncomfortable. He was sure his wrists were raw, and if the blood had stained his jacket, he was going to be incredibly irritated. Not that it mattered, he would never get the smell of this place out of it anyway.

He shifted restlessly. It really was taking a long while for for Sherlock to work this one out. But then, Adams appeared to have been appraised of the abilities of both brothers. Mycroft tried not to be impatient.

He hadn't slept all night, not that he had tried or wanted to, but now he was well past annoyed. No one had been in to talk to him again, though once he thought he had heard screaming. Probably one of the others. Vaguely, he wondered who it was, exactly, before he decided it was irrelevant.

Mycroft shifted again, the muscles in his arms protesting loudly. He did hope someone came soon.

o0o

John scowled in the backseat of the cab. Sherlock hadn't said a word about where they were going. And he was drenched, they had spent fifteen minutes trying to hail a cab, during which John couldn't get his flatmate's attention long enough to get him to put his coat on. The stupid git was probably going to come down with something, and that was a battle John wasn't willing to fight again.

"Stop sulking, John, and come on." John jumped in surprise. The cab had stopped and Sherlock had already stepped out.

"Right." he climbed out and thrust the detective's coat into his hands. "Put that on. Now." Absently, Sherlock obeyed, scanning to nearby buildings and street signs.

"This way." Sherlock headed off, John struggling to keep up with his long strides. Why did Sherlock's legs have to be so bloody long? John wondered briefly. They weaved in and out of side streets until John was completely lost, coming to a stop outside a larger office building. A sign was taped to the door that read:

Closed for Remodel

John looked around. "Should we be here?" he asked as Sherlock began to pick the lock.

"If you mean 'should' in the context of 'are we allowed', no." The detective didn't look away from the lock.

"Then shouldn't we call Lestrade? And, you know, wait?"

"No." The door swung open and Sherlock pocketed his tools. "This is an employee entrance. There'll be a staircase on the left." he moved forward purposefully and disappeared down one of the many branching hallways.

"Shit. Sherlock!" John hurried to catch up before the detective was completely gone. "Wait!"

o0o

Mycroft twisted against the ropes again. He really was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He knew it would be at least another day before the police force could find him, but surely his brother could do better than that. It appeared he was going to miss his meeting with the Greek ambassador after all.

o0o

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, wait for me next time." John turned a corner and nearly tripped over his flatmate, who had dropped to a crouch and was staring intently at the floor.

"All three of them were here. One that way, the other there. Mycroft is upstairs." Sherlock didn't let John so much as open his mouth to reply, snagging his arm and yanking him along. John didn't really mind, this probably wasn't the best time to argue with Sherlock, anyway. Not that there was _ever_ a good time. Sherlock stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs and whispered "There are three guards. Hit the one on the left in the stomach and stand well back."

"Sherlock, I'm not gonna attack any-"

o0o

Mycroft glanced up as his captor entered the room again.

"Shall we try this again, Mr. Holmes?"

"Were you trying the first time?" Mycroft rejoined easily. Adams' smile dropped from his face.

"I thought you and I had agreed that mocking me would get you nowhere."

"I believe you agreed. I merely let you think what you wished." Furious, the man approached Mycroft with a murderous look on his face. It was then that the first gunshot sounded.

o0o

John stepped away from the guard he had just toppled and grimaced at the vomit that now decorated his shoes. He hadn't anticipated that. He turned to find his flatmate allowing the final guard to slump to the floor, with what was probably a broken nose and a concussion. The other lay a few feet away, clearly dead.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

"Fine." Without waiting for the doctor, Sherlock whirled through the door and froze at the sight of a man holding a knife to his brother's throat. He turned back to the door and closed it in John's face. "Ah. Let's keep this between you and I." John pounded on the door outside, calling, but Sherlock ignored him. The man sneered.

"Or you could leave now, and no one would be hurt."

"Oh, I think it's far too late for that." Sherlock calmly surveyed his brother. Cut on his forehead, most likely from being struck with whatever blunt object they had used. Possible concussion, then? Other than that, he appeared more or less unharmed. Mycroft wordlessly raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock could hear his voice in his head.

_Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. _The younger Holmes twitched the corner of his mouth.

_Please. I know what I'm doing. _The air crackled with the brothers' silent conversation. Adams shifted uncomfortably, aware that something was happening, but not sure what. Sherlock smirked and edged forward.

o0o

John tried the door handle again, to no voices in the room continued, low and dangerous. John turned and stood awkwardly in the hall. What was he supposed to do now? He could always phone Lestrade. He dialed the Inspector's number, muttering under his breath when he didn't get a signal. He would have to go downstairs to get his phone to work.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he tried again. The Inspector answered after a few rings.

"Hello? John? What's he done now?"

"Lestrade, we need you and a bit of backup here now." John gave the address and hung up, hurrying back up the steps to try the door again. There were no sounds from the other room. "Shit." Images flashed through his head of Sherlock bleeding out on the floor, or Mycroft, or both. "Sherlock?" he called. No answer came. John took a few steps back and rammed the door with his shoulder.

o0o

Sherlock heard John call his name, but didn't take his eyes off the man who was threatening Mycroft. The two glared at each other, almost unmoving.

Until, of course, the door shuddered under the impact of John Watson, followed by sharp curses. The Holmes brothers didn't so much as flinch, but the other man jumped violently at the noise, staring at the door, his knife shifting a fraction of an inch.

Sherlock sprang for him at the same instant, knocking them both away from Mycroft. The knife flashed and Sherlock felt warmth start to run down his face and into his eyes. Furiously the detective tore the knife away, making sure he hit a non-lethal point when he drove it into the other man's leg. He screamed, a horrible sound that grated against Sherlock's ears.

"Oh, shut up. You'll be fine." Provided the ambulance arrived in a timely manner, but the detective didn't say that. Instead he began untying Mycroft's feet. There were only three or four knots in the world that he couldn't untie, and this was not one of them.

"Sherlock." The younger Holmes looked up as his brother spoke.

"I'll have John examine that cut. Should probably let him in." the detective straightened and unlocked the door, then returned to freeing Mycroft's hands.

John opened the door warily, holding his bruised shoulder. Both Sherlock and Mycroft had the same, murderous glare directed at a bleeding figure on the floor. Well, this was certainly going to be interesting.

"I'll just…go and get Lestrade." He was _not _going to be in the same room with those two right now, not alone. It was just tempting fate.

Mycroft watched John back out the door and rubbed his raw, abused wrists. "Quite the role reversal, isn't it, Sherlock?" The younger Holmes smiled at his brother's unspoken words. Words that neither of them would ever, or ever have to say.

"Oh, it had to be my turn eventually."

o0o

_And that's the end, I'm afraid. This is the final chapter. Once again, sorry for the wait and thank you for all the wonderful reviews!_


End file.
